Once in rehab
by finmagik
Summary: A sixteen year old Sherlock and Jim Moriarty also sixteen. Both are put in rehab for teens. Under the names: 'Bertram Withmore-Smythe' and 'Patrick Moody' They share a room. Under their fake names, as stranger they become friends of a sort or more?


Note: Bertie, and Bertram are Sherlock's name in rehab. Pat or Patrick is what Jim is called

First day of summer hols. Most boys their age would be celebrating with their mates. But in way all our subjects did was celebrate and mostly without anyone. Their families had told everyone that that their sons were off in Europe or America. They had made excuses. Ashamed of the fact their bright, handsome, boys were spending the summer of their sixteenth year in a very discreet rehab facility for adolescences in Scotland under names that weren't there own.

Sherlock had been driven directly there, no chances to escape. They had tried it before. And he had escaped. Of course it wasn't his parents who did this. His father had authorized it, but Mummy was off with her brother Sheridan and his partner Peter. It was Mycroft who hired the car, had the clothes, and toiletries and favorite music already packed. He talked to his younger brother the whole time. Or tried to Sherlock cursed back at him and would have beaten him if hadn't been for the restraints.

With Jim it went surprising calmly. He was not what he became later. They discovered his vodka bottles, and noticed he acted drunk. Maybe he did need to sober up. Besides his mother and father were respected. Especially Mam, she ruled with a iron spiked fist. She was just as smart as Jim and twice the monster. However she confined all her sadism to her family. They had kicked his elder brother out when he refused to stop drinking. Jim didn't want that, he knew how Bran was doing, which was badly. So he quietly agreed to go to rehab.

What neither boy expected was that Heather Meadow clinic made their Patients share rooms. It was randomly assigned but same gender. The people who ran and founded it, thought it might build healthy friendships that could sustain them after the treatment. They never expected 'Bertram' and 'Patrick' to be enrolled.

The first day 'Patrick Moody' came tromping up to the room they assigned room number fourteen. He noted with a grin there was no room thirteen, silly really. Music was already blasting out. He opened the door. The music was moody, dark, the singer's baritone leaked through. He knew it, not something he liked but he knew it.

"That's the Bauhaus, you a goth?" He asked.

The boy on the bed looked up. He was pale startling so, and Patrick was Irish so that was saying something. The boy's longish hair was a dark, dark brown. He was long, gaunt with black circles under grey eyes. He was wearing half a school uniform: the white button up shirt, a pair of light grey trousers, and no shoes or socks. He was to thin, junkie on the street thin and shiver slightly. He had been reading a book on the Moors murders.

He scowled at 'Patrick.'

Sherlock or 'Bertram' had been there for a few hours, they had sedated him. They hadn't forced him to eat. He had put on music and laid down in his room. There was another bed, that was not promising. His brother Myrcoft had enrolled him under the name: Bertram Wittmore-Smythe even a false name was stupidly posh. Then the other boy had come in. Short, round face, handsome in a boyish cum Caravaggio's bacchus way. Irish, dark hair in a mohawk, pierced ears, so fancied himself counter-culture. Wife beater and jeans with badges. Bags under his eyes, a bit overweight, stubble, here because he drank to much. Irish of course. When spoke that confirmed it. An accent from Dublin that sounded so bloody Jim and Mike it wasn't funny. Sherlock went back to his book.

"Hey I'm your roommate, least you could is talk," Said Jim.

"Don't ask me if I'm a goth," said Sherlock.

"I'm not, this is my natural coloring."

"Oh, but the music is fucking depressing," said Jim.

"Sorry, I don't do pop," Said Sherlock.

"Neither do I," said Jim. "Load of shite. What else?"

"I like classical. But no doubt you'd like the sex pistols." said Sherlock.

"I do. But I like classical as well. I was raised on classical concerts. Good stuff sticks. I'm errrmmm Patrick Moody." He said.

"That's the name they gave you, Hmmm?" Said Sherlock He smiled, he had slight ghost of a smile. "Might as well use the one they gave me. I am under the name Bertram Withmore-Smythe."

"That's posh." said Jim.

"I am posh," said Sherlock. "Not an affectation, I assure you. My family had a country estate before the great war, in burke's, came over with the conquest and all that fuckery... But my real surname is not so pretentious."

"That's be impressive if I didn't hate posh bastards," said Jim.

"Well I hate them to. But then again lower classes aren't much better. I know that. A chav dealer sold my friend some rat poison instead of heroin. Killed my friend. In a way I'm glad." Sherlock said.

"How?" said Jim.

"My friend shot up first," said Sherlock and returned to his book. Jim laughed and Sherlock joined him.

It was after they were shuffled out for their mingling 'getting to know you' session. There were some young starlets also under assumed names, scions of CEOs, and many ordinary kids who's had become train-wrecks due to the chemicals they put in themselves. They were given information on what groups they'd be in. What sorts of therapy there would be. Jim and Sherlock sniggered and whispered to each other about this.

Then they went to canteen for food. There was buffet. That was a mistake. Both of them mostly got chips, fish and fatty awful, sausages.

"You notice a few hours after the last high suddenly you become ravenous?" Sherlock said as he baptized his chips liberally with the vinegar bottle he'd stolen.

"Not really," Jim said but stuffed his face with a sausage and gravy.

"Ah, you weren't doing stimulants," said Sherlock.

"I also think fags have to do with it," said Jim. "We both smoke, yellow finger tips. No fags here, right? They kill yer tastebuds. Off the fags appetite comes back."

Sherlock nodded devoured a mound of chips.

Later that night, they listened to Bartók in the room and talked. Sherlock didn't know if wanted to talk, but he wasn't Sherlock now. He was someone else in a place where all the things kept his brain buzzing were gone. What now, and why not?

And Jim hoped that maybe the drink was the thing that had made do such horrible things... well not Carl Powers... he tired not remember he'd done that sober. That the yawning void had always been inside of him. That looking at someone in pain just made him laugh. So 'Bertie' and 'Pat' talked.

"So why are you here?" said Jim. "Me? I thought that was obvious. I'm thin but to thin even for the smallest size of my uniform and the circles under my eyes. The way I shiver slightly. My life is enhanced and my brain stimulated by: cocaine, LSD, mushrooms, speed, heroin, speedballs, PCPs, various amphetamines, animal tranquilizers, alkyl nitrites, a whole host of prescription painkillers also very rarely marijuana or if I have to booze."

"What... whoa...that's..."

"Yes. Well my older brother is to blame like most things. When he was sixteen he got into going to gay discos. Trouble, he was fat and he hates to exercise. So what's a rich boy to do when he want to party at the clubs? Well he did coke. Got him a nice twink body for a while, as long stayed away from jaffa cakes. He made friends and boyfriends at those clubs. Brought them home. My house is large and my parents? Well, Mummy was undergoing electro-shock therapy at the time and Daddy was lecturing at Oxford as well working on some top-secret project for Whitehall. So it was me and him. I was nine."

"Nine? When you started?"

"I didn't start, on my own. I didn't find his stash pick up a rolled up dollar bills and snort a line. I was nine. I was more interested in robots, dissecting frogs, dead animals, making explosives and being a pirate. But his friends were loud when brought them home. So I'd go downstairs to them. We'd talk. They thought I was 'cheeky', 'cute' and 'funny' they gave me drugs. Drugged marijuana biscuits. Pills to swallow with juice, LSD, and had me do a line."

"Still... nine?"

"Yes. I enjoyed it. Totally made forget about wanting to be pirate. I wanted more coke. They gave me more. They were dumb. But good looking I guess why my brother had them around. Never fed me drugs when Mycroft was around. Then when they didn't want to. I'd steal or blackmail the drugs. There was a close call had to go the causality ward when I was eleven. But then I made my own connections, got myself dealers. And everything was alright, until of course Mycroft interfered. My studies were not suffering to badly. I don't see the reason AT ALL."

"Your brother... I don't know cares about you. Normal people do."

"Does your family care about you, Jim?"

"No. Well my Brother Bran loves me, and I love him. But he's... a wreck... a human mess... I feel sorry for him. Mam she's a evil thing, and I can't hate her. I can admire her when I see how she did it. She got me to do what wanted feel what she wanted. How I still want, hope she'll tell me she's proud and how she loves me and I'm her baby boy. Dad? Does what Mam wants. He's a loser, drunk, repressed pedophile who hasn't acted on his desires yet. Likes little girls. So I'm lucky there. Bran is my half brother older like yours. His Dad well, Mam would hurt Bran to try his Dad to come back, hurt him bad, like break his bones, feed him poison. But his Dad figured it out and knew that he could never his son again. His Dad lives in Australia now re-married has a new family. Still won't have anything to do with Bran for fear of what my Mam will do to him."

"How does your Mother get away with it?"

"Easy. She's one of the leading experts in the world in child psychology. She's called in on loads of court cases. She helps governments plan social service programs. She lectures, writes books, and she's done so many things. I think she takes mental notes when she goes through horrible abuse cases: _'stupid move, don't do that'_ and _'clever idea, I'll try it on Jim and Bran when I get home'."_

"That's... genius and utterly evil."

"Yes. I know if I went to police and I tried to make a case against her. I'd have nothing. She'd be able to counter everything I said. And make this damned fairy tale of a happy home and the ungrateful son."

"Of course. So the drinking was that because of your father?"

"How did you... is it because I'm Irish?"

"Yes and no. There are signs, Jim."

"Right, Sherlock. Yes, I drink. I usually vodka, easy to get. It's clear it looks like water. And my Dad used always have a glass of 'water' at dinner and in his study. My brother drank too. It just totally ruined him. So I knew... but it helped me escape. I could do things. Big things, powerful cruel things. That I never would do sober. I wanted to do. I had done some things.. bad things...you know..."

"Set local strays on fire?"

"-You could say that, Bertie. But drinking made the cruel things seem okay. And it makes it seem like things I do. Like waking up covered in blood and I don't remember why and I don't have that many cuts on me. That it was the drink, it was all the drink and I'm a good person. And I can sleep at night. Knowing I'm not- not-..."

"A monster? I understand. I did PCP you know. And I've done things on cocaine that could be the subject for a horror movie. Or at least a exploitation movie."

"Like what?"

"Fight people, burnt down an abandoned building. Broke someone's nose. Threatened to castrate a man who'd paid me to blow him. Bit a chunk of ear someone's off. Vandalism, lots of vandalism and theft."

"Oh, yeah I've done that, sober."

"PCP, Jim. I did it. I killed livestock on that. Nearest sensation you get to being a celtic warrior coated in woad or viking berserker."

"Livestock, chickens?"

"Four chickens, a pig and a goat. I always hated that goat."

"...Seriously?"

"And I assaulted the farmer. And kicked over bee hives. And got shot in shoulder."

"What happened?"

"My elder brother, Uncle Peter, Daddy and Grandmeré. They have money. They made the problem go away. Also my older brother made sure I couldn't get PCP anymore, killjoy. The morning after is no fun, hangover for hell. But a nice handful of painkillers takes care of that."

"I've killed people."

"Oh, come on."

"No, I do."

"How old are you?"

"Sixteen."

"So I am."

"I did kill someone once. A boy I didn't like at school. He picked on me. He was a fucking arsehole. I made him drown. I laughed and I cried. No one knew. I hated him, but I did feel a bit sorry for his Mum."

"You can't make people drown, Pat."

"I can, Bertie."

"What you wished upon a star? Prayed to Jesus for a favor? Come on, what did you do?"

"I... well it's to complicated really... I've always been advanced. It was dead clever... that was the wicked bit."

"Advanced? I learned to read when I was one. I was doing sums by then as well, and science."

"I learn to read about that age and I was doing sums at nine months. I've always had a knack for numbers."

"When did you learn to write, Jim?"

"Three and a half."

"Hah! I was two."

"But I had to re-learn. Mam broke my fingers by slamming them in the door. I was left handed. I had be right handed, because that was correct. It was my fault, I wrote with the wrong hand."

"Oh. That's... interesting."

"I'm dead tired Bertie or whatever your name is. We have bloody 'express your feelings group' first thing and art therapy late. I'm planing on drawing willies jizzing all over the paper as art."

"Charming."

"What will you draw?"

"Portraits of famous serial killers."

"Can I be in one?"

"Get famous first, loser." 'Bertram' said with a smile.

Jim laughed, his dark eyes sparkled, he looked so sweet and goofy. They both went to their beds. Sherlock turned off the music. Jim changed into his boxers. Sherlock changed into pajamas. And they lay down. Someone was wailing in one the rooms, after a while it stopped. They slept.

It was after a big unhealthy breakfast and they were in art therapy.

"Who's that?" Jim asked as he finished sixth jizzing dick.

"Carl Panzram, American serial killer, I'm not good at this." Sherlock gave an frustrated sigh. "His last words were: 'Hurry up, you Hoosier bastards I could kill ten men while you're fooling around.'

"Wicked! I want last words like that!" Jim said. "I might have to steal from Carl."

"As I said I'm no bloody good, I think I should stick to cubes and lines. Abstract and paint blotches. Everyone thinks that's deep. An older cousin is artist like that. Can't draw for shit, does that. But makes loads of money."

"You want to be an artist, Sherlock?" "Fuck no. Load of bollocks. And the whole art world is always wanking off each other. Speaking of which nice penises. A bit to veiny, never seen one with quite so many... veins.."

"Seen a lot?" "I was at boarding school we had to share showers and rooms. Also there was the line of work I dabbled in."

"Rent-boy?"

"No. Not techinally I never touched the perverts. I'd threaten, blackmail or beat them until they either paid me or gave me drugs."

"Ha! That's clever!"

"Yes, rather. I knew exactly who go with. Always picked married, closeted ones, tories, with children and positions that depended on their reputation. Also non-aggressive."

"How did you tell?"

"Oh, Patrick, Patrick... same way I knew you were an alcoholic.

" "Because I'm a Mic and you're bigoted?"

"No. Observation and deduction. Didn't you know that?"

"Yeah a bit. I do a bit of that myself."

"You need to work on it, Pat."

"I guess. Why did you slag off that yank in group today?"

"Oh, that? When she said that her family was never close that's why she had her problems. That all drug abuse is a cry for attention. She can't fucking assume. About everyone."

"What do you mean? It seemed more or less true generally. Your family never seems to be around, only there to clean up after you. And mine well other my brother they don't care."

"My Dad was close to me, when I was small. We're very similar he has mind like mine. We used to science projects together. Built a rocket. Then he wrote a paper that got him some notice in his circles and that stopped. Second case my Mother and my uncle Sheridan. He is two years older then her, but apart from a span of fifteen years. They have been quasi-incestuously close. Once when they both drunk he said that if had to ever sleep with a woman it would be her. She took it as compliment. He's a homosexual."

"Don't like that?"

"No problem with it. But he's a horrible person, selfish, greedy, sponger, manipulative, drunkard, and prone to melodrama and mood swings. But Mummy loves him, when he tried to off himself in 1970 she pulled him out of the gutter got him a acting role. Proper one." Said Bertram. "Mummy spends most of her time with him and his partner Peter now, in their flat in London or their house in California."

"Is he a movie star?"

Sherlock snorted. "No. He's an actor. I suppose you would have seen him. He's been a quite a few things since 1970 movies, telly, theatre, commercials and radio but hardly any leading parts. I suppose he's a actor that everyone knows but is not exactly famous. When he gets in a funk that is his main complaint against the world. According to Mummy he isn't as bad he was when she 'saved' him. But as I said Mummy and Uncle Sheridan are the love story for the ages. Peter and Daddy are bit players when they get together. Apparently they used sleep in the same bed until Mummy was twelve."

"What?"

"Yes. Their parents discouraged it, but Mummy was good at picking locks and she would go into the bed with him. Every time they were together for school holidays. They'd read love poems to each other and tell each other stories. They had in-jokes and their own language. Like twins. Then again Mother and Uncle Sheridan do look a lot a like. And now with both of them getting cosmetic surgery it has gotten eerie. Same ectomorphic build, same dark hair and pale eyes. I take after Mummy, well not the cosmetic surgery, obviously."

"That is creepy."

"Mummy is only happy when she's with him and when he visits. Uncle Peter, his partner makes sure they both take their pills. But it never lasts."

"Why didn't you say this in group?"

"Fuck group."

"Aren't we here to get better?"

"I didn't want to come here."

"What do you want?"

"I want to die in a puddle of vomit and blood. Over dosed on something that made my mind spark and dance. I hope I don't see thirty."

"Why?"

"Because. You're 'advanced,' 'gifted,' you know Pat. The whole world seems like it has downs syndrome. No scratch that. At least people with downs syndrome are nice. They seem more like they are dumb, brutish, savages. And when you are only one who can think, really think. It hurts. Better not to go on. But I don't want to outright kill myself."

"Why not, seems easy and fast."

"Your family doesn't have a history of depression does it? Mine does. I've seen many botched attempts laying in the hospital their lives are hellish. They are reduced to pure shit. And they can't escape. They tried. They failed. Now they have constant pain and a body that doesn't work. Of course they didn't tell me what it was, but I figured it out and eavesdropped."

"Oh. It might be better to be in charge." "And what tell all the infants to change their diapers and not dribble on their shirts? No thank you."

"What can tell you me about myself, today, Bertram? We know each other a bit better.

" "That you haven't revealed already? Hmmm..." Sherlock's eyes flickered to the pencil picture of dicks and to the round face of his roommate with his big dark eyes he smiled and laughed. "Heh."

"What? Tell me you fucker!"

"Shouldn't have said that."

"Why?"

"Those burly male nurses are coming to check out your outburst."

"Errr, I don't want to get in trouble here."

"Fine. Get back to your penises."

Then they watched some videos on what substance abuse did to you. Very graphic and horrible. Sherlock and Jim sniggered and stifled giggling through out them. They heard some lectures, they had more therapy.

Now it was lunch. Sherlock loaded up on sweets and because someone had put out in the wrong time, streaky bacon also a few fish fingers. Jim got a egg and cress sandwich, a green salad which he smothered in cream dressing and bacon bits. They slid their trays far from the rest of the other people in a far corner of a table.

"So are you going live on custard today?" Jim asked.

"Yes, I feel like custard today." said Sherlock.

"Funny you don't look custard." Jim said with a cheeky grin.

"Haha. That's not funny." said Sherlock.

"One of your fish fingers is falling in the custard." said Jim.

Sherlock took out the offending fish finger, smiled. Jim mused those lips were perfect full but not obscenely red, and a lovely cupid's bow shape he could kiss them and he didn't kiss people. And Sherlock sucked the custard off the fish finger, his face contorting in disgust.

"Weirdo." said chuckled Jim.

"Not a good combination." Sherlock mused. "But one has to experiment, right Patrick?"

"Errr what do you mean?" Jim asked looking away.

"Oh come on," Sherlock said his grin became wicked.

"My brother is bisexual," Jim said.

"Your brother, eh?" Sherlock said raising an eyebrow.

"Yes." Jim said in a tone that brooked no doubt. "My brother is a cynical, bitter, arsehole. He can use people and he has. But underneath way underneath he's soft as melted butter. And when he falls in love, he gets awkward and stupid all the blackness leaves. And it doesn't matter with him. Bird or bloke. I don't know now. Says he doesn't like blokes. Well not after Adrian."

"Go on," Sherlock said. "My brother he writes. Mam, she's backhand about it. She'll tell him he'd be good if finish it or would correct his spelling or his plots were better. She has to knock him down all the time. She does that with all of us. But he is amazing. When he gets on a writing kick he can write things that make Tolstoy look like hack that writes for Mills & Boon. But he'll get discouraged and burn it. But when Bran was our age he was in a writing group. He met Adrian Winslow there. Fucking Adrian Winslow. English, like you, upper middle class lovely voice but with hint of scouse. Older. And Bran was smitten. Totally, became a nervous mess around him. I don't blame him. Adrian was fit. Looked like a Pre-Raphaelite angel had shagged some old movie star to make him. Odd thing was Adrian liked Bran back."

"Is that so odd?"

"If you knew my brother it would be! My brother isn't one for personal hygiene never has been. And as I said if anyone can get through the wall of stuttering, nonsense and backing away my brother does when he fancies someone they are lucky. He defeats himself." Said Jim.

"So Adrian liked a bit of rough. And maybe thought it was bizarrely charming." said Sherlock.

"I suppose. They were happy. I spied on them, stupid. I was eleven and I wanted to make sure this flash bloke wasn't putting one over my brother."

"And you saw them getting off?"

"Yeah, snogging, cuddling and things. Adrian was dumb though. I guess Adrian moved to Dublin and thought it'd be like London. It wasn't London. He got Bran to do things in public at night." Jim said."Bad luck follows Bran like a dog."

"I can guess were this is going." Sherlock sighed.

"Some local yobs saw them. Told them they didn't want faggots queering it up. Bran said some dumb shit to them. He never knows when to keep quiet, either. Adrian, fucking Adrian. He turned craven. Offered them money and ran for it. Left my brother to get the shit kicked out of him. I had to take Bran to the causality ward. Adrian came to his bedside and broke up with him. Telling him he was to young, and that Bran had invested to much in them." Jim said.

"Bastard."

"What was the age difference?" Sherlock asked.

"Six years." said Jim. "You can bet Bran burned that novel to bad it was lovely a bit like E.M. Forester only in contemporary Ireland. I got them though, the yobs and Adrian Winslow." He smiled.

Sherlock thought it was such a odd smile, scary and yet on that boyish face with those features you couldn't take it serious at all. You'd see it and think he was harmless. Was 'Pat' harmless? He did say that things about blacking out and then waking up covered in blood, none of it his own. But that could be just a boast. Anyways, he knew what 'Pat' was. Should he reveal it, did he need this Patrick Moody as a friend? He didn't have friends outside rehab why did he need them inside.

"You're afraid you'll end up like your brother if you come out," said Sherlock.

"What? I'm not gay." said Jim.

"Come off it. You are. You are just in the closet. It's partly the reason you drink. When you drink you can excuse making passing at other boys or snogging them or whatever. You're gay Patrick. I notice the way you stare at me and the dick picture."

"I stare at you Bertram because you look like a blood skeleton with skin over it. And dicks are funny, everyone knows that. I'm not gay."

"Are." said Sherlock."My brother is a queen, and my uncle is possibly the biggest luvvie since Quentin Crisp. I know the signs. I don't care if you are, admit it."

"I've been with girls. I've fucked them. Loads of them."

"That doesn't mean anything, you know that." Patrick said. "I haven't kissed or shagged anyone. I don't even wank that often. Only in dire need."

"You're sixteen, and you haven't kissed anyone? And you don't-"

"Keep it down, Jim!" And then Jim burst out laughing so loud the whole canteen looked at him.

Sherlock scowled and turned away from him.

That night Bertram or whatever is name was, spent forever in the shower. Jim was hoping maybe that this was one of those dire needs and he was wanking in there. Jim wished he had his trusty bottle of cheap vodka, a little liquid courage he'd go in... and prove he was big faggy cocksucker. Best cocksucker in Scotland he bet. Oh speaking of fags one wouldn't go amiss. Deprive them of everything else but fags, why? It wasn't like that was the thing that brought them here.

Sherlock stepped out the shower. He'd been standing under the water for ten minutes longer then he needed to, all to avoid 'Patrick' He knew that this phase of life meant sexual hormones were coursing through him and it made him feel disgusting. The whole idea that he had urges to rut like an animal. He recalled he'd the time been at party someone's house. The reason he went was because there were drugs. And his friend, the one who injected rat poison Vic... before of course the rat poison thing... had brought him.

Sherlock found himself talking to a girl, one the few intelligent people there, her name was Violet Hunter. They were discussing chemistry. Then he became horribly aware of how close she was her body. The exposed skin of her v-cut collar he could see her collar bone, her scapula under her skin he felt the urge to kiss it. And lower...her breasts under her shirt... they weren't large, he had been told and heard that large breasts were good... they were small he didn't care... and she didn't feel the need to wear a bra. He could make out her nipples. He wanted to touch them, he wondered if she's let him. And what noises she'd make. He recalled how he hated those thoughts.

How they made him feel lower, degraded, like those mangey stray dogs he'd seen coupling by the side of the road two weeks before that. He was to smart to think like this! He moved away from her didn't talk to her. Snubbed Violet the rest of evening. Did lines of coke, and ended up smoking on the roof with no shirt and a bloody nose. It wasn't sexual so it was fine.

But sometimes, sometimes her dreamt of her, when sleep would come, her and one Mycroft's boyfriends a builder called Damian, that didn't last long. The one he'd walked in when he was thirteen, accidentally when the guy was in the shower. Damian had a body like greek statue, but a mind like one too rocks in his head. Thick as dick.

He'd dream of them, it would jumbled up, sometimes just the images he saw. Sometimes more. Once vividly Violet was in the shower with Damian they were both naked, making out, having sex. She turned, her eyes shooting fire and she beckoned to him. And he felt her gaze so intensely that he must have reached orgasm then. He woke up to ruined sheets. But none of the other dreams were ever that overtly sexual. it would a jumble of images them naked or just views of body parts, sometimes disturbingly crime scene photos, sometimes himself durning the rare sessions he had to self-stimulate, once or twice images from some of porn rags his fellow students had would show up. Rarely, very rarely he'd touch a breast or a smooth chest, or a thigh, or be kissed. Then the orgasm would come and he would wake to sticky awful, humiliating sheets. He knew he should wank to at prevent this. But it was a chore when awake. And now he to leave the nice warm steamy bathroom and face Patrick.

He wasn't expecting a cloud of sweet, comforting tobacco smoke.

"You have fags?" He said. Patrick grinned at him and took a drag from his fag.

"Yeah, met a janitor, paid him for his pack of Rothmans'. I had some cash on hand. Enough. It's not he's giving us the the bad stuff, besides this might help us adjust to being clean, right Bertie?"

"Yes, give me some, Pat."

"No, promise you won't tell me I'm gay. 'Cuz I'm not."

"Fine. Your straight, you love vaginas and breasts. You probably have fathered children on a dozen girls. Give me the fags."

Patick gave him one his famous sly, boyish smiles. One that hints of madness in the glimmer in the eyes. There was something dangerous but lovely about it. He handed over half the pack to Sherlock along with some matches.

"Much better, git." Said Jim.

Sherlock took his prize like a fiend, a guarding them jealously. He lit his cigarette on the bed. When he his inhaled eyes closed. And Jim saw the first glimpse of pleasure of his roommate's face. Pure relaxation and bliss, a smile curling those perfect lips which only cigarettes had kissed. He wanted to be that fag. But oh the hand shook so slightly, still a junkie. On the outside he could use that against him, yes the swotty, toffy nosed... friend.

Maybe a friend...? He'd never called anyone a friend he couldn't use later. Had attacked his other 'clients' but Jim would make him work for his high. And oh, he'd open doors for 'Bertram' such doors. It would wonderful to see that expression of bliss come from a tug of his hand on that boy's cock. Make him shout, groan and grunt. Make him say romantic bullshit which neither would take seriously after the fact. And then Sherlock turned to Jim. "

You may have fucked loads of girls, but you don't care for them. You loathe every minute of it. You like guys."

"Fucker! But you said!"

"I have the cigarettes now."

"Fucker!" And Jim launched himself at Sherlock, he was in his boxer shorts ready for bed. He was much smaller then his roommate. Later he'd have one last growth spurt, and Sherlock was already nearly his adult height. So this would be hilarious if he wasn't so vicious, but Sherlock was just as vicious. And he got him in a head lock which Jim broke and bruised his knuckles against the taller boy's boney rib-cage. Jim bit, kicked and scratched. Girls were only supposed to scratch, and it would been funny but the mad fucker was going for Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock punched him, bloodied his nose, knocked the wind from him, had pinned him twice and once was sitting on his head. But he kept coming back, biting and being devious. There was a point an odd point were 'Bertram' was holding 'Patrick's' head away from his face. Jim was on top and attempting to bite his nose. Jim's face was bloody, so was Sherlock's.

And then they both began to laugh.

"You know it looks like your going to snog me!" Sherlock said.

"I might do!" Jim said. "Just to get you off guard."

"Oh that'll be lovely, I'll come back from rehab and I'll have gotten my first kiss from, psychotic, drunken, Irish punk!" said Sherlock. "No grandchildren Mum and Dad! Both your sons are gay as a Soho public men's room!"

There was pause and Jim lay his head on Sherlock's xylophone like chest. He could almost feel that wildly beating heart, reach in and pluck out the organ. He wondered how someone with so little padding could function. They lay like that for three breaths. And then Sherlock coughed, he felt reverberate it in his ear.

"Get off, Jim." He could have sworn he felt something hard against his thigh as well... Jim put his head up, and rolled off his friend.

"Oh yeah. How are we going to explain the blood?"

"We're are going to get cleaned of. I'm going first. Since you fight like bloody feral cat, do you trim your nails or sharpen them?"

"Sharpen, and I paint them didn't you notice?"

"Yes, that's another reason you are queer."

"Loads of guys pain their nails black."

"Yes but not green, blue and black, Pat."

"I'm not the only one Burlington Bertie..."

"What do you mean?"

"For minute there I felt you get a bit excited..."

"I'm not gay."

"You like girls?"

"No." "Then gay, hah!"

"No."

"Then what?"

"I avoid anything having to do below the waist line."

"Then go take that shower, Bertram old chap, make sure it's cold. Because you're ol' fellow doesn't seem to know that."

He looked down at the erection that was still there, he knew had been there the whole time he'd been the whole bloody time he'd been talking to Patrick. The joker had to point it out, probably to make himself feel better about his own latent homosexuality.

"Fuck you, Jim."

Went in the bathroom and slammed the door. Jim waited. He had a nice long wank, thinking of new roommate. He wasn't gay it was just... they were confined here right? Might as well make do. Besides this was good, it wasn't like he was setting people on fire today, only did that when drunk. He never told Bertram that he'd threatened the janitor with a box-cutter to get the cigarettes. No, that was the demon inside, not him. It was so easy to twist the man's arm, so nice to see the fear flicker in his dull eyes, when he held the blade to his throat, made a little nick... not enough to really do anything. It'd just look like the man cut himself shaving, but hearing him squeal and seeing the drop of blood... oh that was as good as sex.

Jim had cum.

He felt sick inside.

What was he, his mother? Getting sick thrills from hurting people? He had paid the man, promised he would, that was fair. But it was good he snuck the box cutter in, it came in handy. He'd sober up, sure. And he hoped the demon would die. It wasn't right, he shouldn't wank to this. He shouldn't let the demon win, the blackness, the void inside, wasn't him. He knew there was time when wasn't there. He just didn't know when. Worst bit was he was sober. And unlike the others: Those bullies who picked on his brother, Adrian Winslow, the Priest, and Carl Powers.

That dumb, dull man didn't deserve it, like the ones he got when he was drunk. So far this rehab wasn't helping at all.

Sherlock had gone in with the intention of killing the erection. Which shouldn't have happened. It was because of human contact, flesh to flesh a sort of odd rough, intimacy. That was so exhilarating and not sexual then it had become sexual. He couldn't process how fighting and wrestling 'Patrick' had been. And the whole last bit joking about kissing him. It had been a joke, right? Of course. Patrick was a chubby, short, closeted homosexual, teenaged alcoholic with anger issues and self-deluded. He wasn't into him. He did find some traits Patrick had interesting and for this time, they could get along. But oh, in that hot and rough tumble: his skin, his body, his hair.. he raw energy... what? No. Sherlock decided that it would good idea to have hot shower and masturbate instead. Not think of what happened at all, think of nothing but the sensation, then release like normal. It had been to long, drug use did deaden that drive thank god. So it was no wonder he hadn't. And it didn't take to long before he came under the hot water, he stifled a groan and watched the ejaculate spill wash into the drain.

Then he really scrubbed himself clean, he hated this feeling of afterwards, it was not him, hormonally driven urges.

Like he was some animal. At least an animal could be neutered and rid of them. Not a human, people ask odd questions if you requested that. He had when he was thirteen. They made him see a therapist. Doctor patient confidentially didn't exist when you had family history of mental illness. He finished toweled off, brushed his teeth and put on his pajamas bottoms they were not as blood-stained.

The light was off in the room, Patrick Moody was laying in a fetal position under the blankets in his bed, head under the covers.

"Your turn Patrick." He said as he exited. The other boy turned and got up, he trudged into the bathroom. Sherlock smoked another cigarette before he slept. It helped him, calm down. He'd be here for the whole summer, he didn't know if he could stand it.


End file.
